So, my
heart hurts.
(I know—it is nice to see me, isn’t it?)
But anyway, my heart hurts.
And I’m not exactly sure why.
I recently (and by recently, I mean not even a little bit recently at all) ventured into the terrifying world that is online dating (aka a hellspace that I would very much like to leave as soon as possible thank you very much like seriously how the hell did I even get here and what do I have to do to get out?).
The thing is, I don’t like dating.
I’ve tried to like dating.
I swear I’ve tried to like dating.
I’ve tried to be optimistic about it. I’ve tried to just roll with it. I’ve tried to see it as this fantastic opportunity to meet some really! great! people!
But despite the forced optimism, the rolling, the really! okay! people!, I just hate it.
And what’s worse? I’m bad at it.
Dating makes me anxious (like really, really anxious) and nervous (like really, really nervous) and sweaty (like… okay, you get it).
I’m just not wired for it. Meeting strangers in places and having to talk to them for extended periods of time?
No thanks.
I’d rather just stay home.
I’d rather just be alone.
Okay, so that’s definitely not true—I don’t want to be alone.
That’s why I brave the hellspace.
That’s why I keep braving the hellspace.
I’ve been single my whole life.
I am a perpetual single person. It’s just what I do.
And I know a number of you (the imaginary readers of this blog) are raising your fists in solidarity, a muttered “Preach, Sister” falling from your lips.
And I feel you, I do.
But nah.
I am a perpetual single person in that I have never not been single.
Okay, so, I’ve spent some time sort of dating people for a little bit before they or I or any combination of the two decides to fade away.
But a boyfriend? That’s something I’ve never had.
And I’m kind of, sort of over it.
I feel like this is the part of the blog post where a lightbulb should go off. I should go, “Hey! My heart hurts because I want the D!” and I should hastily close this post off with some bullshit about how nothing worth getting comes easily or the best things in life are worth waiting for.
But the thing is, that lightbulb went off like… literally eight years ago.
I have wanted the D (and I mean, maybe the person that comes with it, I guess, whatever) for 8+ years.
My heart’s already been hurting over that bad boy.
I don’t need to write about it.
This hurt is something new.
I recently (and this actually was recently) had started dating/seeing/etc.ing a fella that I liked. He was handsome and mysterious and I was wholly sucked in.
I admit this to you, bad blog and your invisible readership, because we are friends.
I do not like being sucked in.
Sucked in makes you stupid.
Sucked in made me stupid.
So there I am, totally sucked in, my brain whirring with one million different possibilities of things that were so totally 100% going to happen.
I may have gotten carried away. There may have been waffles and snowball fights and forehead kisses and actually having a date to things.
There may have been like and like like and lurve and eventually, maybe even love.
I was wishing.
And I was hoping.
And it was bad.
So, to recap: Met a boy. Liked said boy. Dated said boy.
Annnnnd, well, said boy dumped me.
(Okay, so admittedly, there wasn’t too much to dump. A few dates does not a dumpee make.)
But yeah, when you get down to it—I got dumped.
There it is. The reason my heart hurts.
Right? Maybe?
Here’s the thing—I didn’t love the guy.
Here’s more of the thing—I didn’t even really know the guy.
I won’t sit here and tell you that we were soulmates and that I lost some great love.
I didn’t.
I kind of liked the guy.
That’s it.
Seriously.
But here’s another thing—the idea of the guy?
The idea of those waffles and snowball fights and forehead kisses and actually having a date to things? The idea of that like and like like and lurve and eventually, maybe even love?
Now that—that I loved.
And that right there—that is why my heart hurts.
Because I let myself fall in love with an idea.
Long before that idea even had earned the right to being one.
I do this a lot.
I do this to myself a lot.
Anytime something new and good makes its way into my life, I take it and I RUN WITH IT.
Submit a job application for hip, interesting job in moderate to large city somewhere? Suddenly, I’m Lena Dunham (note: I have no desire to be Lena Dunham but feel this is a good example) in Warby Parker glasses with perfect Zooey Deschanel bangs, living in this crazy cool loft, running the company I just applied for the job in, meeting a handsome dude with good hair and falling in love with him.
Go on vacation in San Francisco? Not Lena Dunham but still have my Warby Parker glasses and Deschanel bangs, riding trolley cars up and down the winding hills of the city in a perfect sundress/denim jacket combo. But wait, there’s kismet! And I meet a handsome dude with good hair and fall in love with him.
Meet handsome dude with good hair on OKCupid? Glasses, bangs, and for some reason, in this fantasy, I can really rock an oversized sweater (note: I cannot) and you guessed it, that handsome dude with good hair? I totally fall in love with him.
I do this EVERY SINGLE TIME.
And I think it’s sort of ruining my life.
Okay, that might be a little bit of an exaggeration.
My life is in pretty okay shape, thank you very much.
But it does make things difficult.
It does make kinda shitty things a lot worse.
So, what’s a girl to do?
Should I abandon all these great big hopes and dreams that I cook up inside my head?
Should I give just reality a try for a little while?
On the one hand, yes.
It sure would save my heart a lot of hurting.
When things go belly up (as things do have a tendency to do), I’ll only lose a little instead of a whole hell of a lot.
I’ll only lose what’s actually there instead of a bunch of coulds and shoulds and woulds and wills.
(I know—it is nice to see me, isn’t it?)
But anyway, my heart hurts.
And I’m not exactly sure why.
I recently (and by recently, I mean not even a little bit recently at all) ventured into the terrifying world that is online dating (aka a hellspace that I would very much like to leave as soon as possible thank you very much like seriously how the hell did I even get here and what do I have to do to get out?).
The thing is, I don’t like dating.
I’ve tried to like dating.
I swear I’ve tried to like dating.
I’ve tried to be optimistic about it. I’ve tried to just roll with it. I’ve tried to see it as this fantastic opportunity to meet some really! great! people!
But despite the forced optimism, the rolling, the really! okay! people!, I just hate it.
And what’s worse? I’m bad at it.
Dating makes me anxious (like really, really anxious) and nervous (like really, really nervous) and sweaty (like… okay, you get it).
I’m just not wired for it. Meeting strangers in places and having to talk to them for extended periods of time?
No thanks.
I’d rather just stay home.
I’d rather just be alone.
Okay, so that’s definitely not true—I don’t want to be alone.
That’s why I brave the hellspace.
That’s why I keep braving the hellspace.
I’ve been single my whole life.
I am a perpetual single person. It’s just what I do.
And I know a number of you (the imaginary readers of this blog) are raising your fists in solidarity, a muttered “Preach, Sister” falling from your lips.
And I feel you, I do.
But nah.
I am a perpetual single person in that I have never not been single.
Okay, so, I’ve spent some time sort of dating people for a little bit before they or I or any combination of the two decides to fade away.
But a boyfriend? That’s something I’ve never had.
And I’m kind of, sort of over it.
I feel like this is the part of the blog post where a lightbulb should go off. I should go, “Hey! My heart hurts because I want the D!” and I should hastily close this post off with some bullshit about how nothing worth getting comes easily or the best things in life are worth waiting for.
But the thing is, that lightbulb went off like… literally eight years ago.
I have wanted the D (and I mean, maybe the person that comes with it, I guess, whatever) for 8+ years.
My heart’s already been hurting over that bad boy.
I don’t need to write about it.
This hurt is something new.
I recently (and this actually was recently) had started dating/seeing/etc.ing a fella that I liked. He was handsome and mysterious and I was wholly sucked in.
I admit this to you, bad blog and your invisible readership, because we are friends.
I do not like being sucked in.
Sucked in makes you stupid.
Sucked in made me stupid.
So there I am, totally sucked in, my brain whirring with one million different possibilities of things that were so totally 100% going to happen.
I may have gotten carried away. There may have been waffles and snowball fights and forehead kisses and actually having a date to things.
There may have been like and like like and lurve and eventually, maybe even love.
I was wishing.
And I was hoping.
And it was bad.
So, to recap: Met a boy. Liked said boy. Dated said boy.
Annnnnd, well, said boy dumped me.
(Okay, so admittedly, there wasn’t too much to dump. A few dates does not a dumpee make.)
But yeah, when you get down to it—I got dumped.
There it is. The reason my heart hurts.
Right? Maybe?
Here’s the thing—I didn’t love the guy.
Here’s more of the thing—I didn’t even really know the guy.
I won’t sit here and tell you that we were soulmates and that I lost some great love.
I didn’t.
I kind of liked the guy.
That’s it.
Seriously.
But here’s another thing—the idea of the guy?
The idea of those waffles and snowball fights and forehead kisses and actually having a date to things? The idea of that like and like like and lurve and eventually, maybe even love?
Now that—that I loved.
And that right there—that is why my heart hurts.
Because I let myself fall in love with an idea.
Long before that idea even had earned the right to being one.
I do this a lot.
I do this to myself a lot.
Anytime something new and good makes its way into my life, I take it and I RUN WITH IT.
Submit a job application for hip, interesting job in moderate to large city somewhere? Suddenly, I’m Lena Dunham (note: I have no desire to be Lena Dunham but feel this is a good example) in Warby Parker glasses with perfect Zooey Deschanel bangs, living in this crazy cool loft, running the company I just applied for the job in, meeting a handsome dude with good hair and falling in love with him.
Go on vacation in San Francisco? Not Lena Dunham but still have my Warby Parker glasses and Deschanel bangs, riding trolley cars up and down the winding hills of the city in a perfect sundress/denim jacket combo. But wait, there’s kismet! And I meet a handsome dude with good hair and fall in love with him.
Meet handsome dude with good hair on OKCupid? Glasses, bangs, and for some reason, in this fantasy, I can really rock an oversized sweater (note: I cannot) and you guessed it, that handsome dude with good hair? I totally fall in love with him.
I do this EVERY SINGLE TIME.
And I think it’s sort of ruining my life.
Okay, that might be a little bit of an exaggeration.
My life is in pretty okay shape, thank you very much.
But it does make things difficult.
It does make kinda shitty things a lot worse.
So, what’s a girl to do?
Should I abandon all these great big hopes and dreams that I cook up inside my head?
Should I give just reality a try for a little while?
On the one hand, yes.
It sure would save my heart a lot of hurting.
When things go belly up (as things do have a tendency to do), I’ll only lose a little instead of a whole hell of a lot.
I’ll only lose what’s actually there instead of a bunch of coulds and shoulds and woulds and wills.
But on the other hand, no.
And hear me out on this one.
So yeah, my heart’s going to get a little broken now and again.
I’m going to feel things and I’m going to feel them acutely.
I’m going to look stupid. I’m going to feel stupid.
And goddamn, that’s going to suck.
(Hell, it already does.)
But think of it this way–
You know that phrase No Expectations, No Disappointments.
Yeah, that’s all well and good.
But no expectations leads to no… anything.
No expectations…that’s like choosing not to participate in your life.
And that’s not something I’m willing to do.
I’d rather hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt.
I’d rather feel and burn and cry and want.
I’d rather hope.
Because at some point (and big fingers crossed here) some of that wishful thinking is going to come to fruition.
At some point, something good’s going to come for me in the heart department.
(People who hope as much as I do just know these things.)
Something good.
Someone good.
And you know what, I bet he’s bringing waffles.
I bet he’s bringing love.
And hear me out on this one.
So yeah, my heart’s going to get a little broken now and again.
I’m going to feel things and I’m going to feel them acutely.
I’m going to look stupid. I’m going to feel stupid.
And goddamn, that’s going to suck.
(Hell, it already does.)
But think of it this way–
You know that phrase No Expectations, No Disappointments.
Yeah, that’s all well and good.
But no expectations leads to no… anything.
No expectations…that’s like choosing not to participate in your life.
And that’s not something I’m willing to do.
I’d rather hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt.
I’d rather feel and burn and cry and want.
I’d rather hope.
Because at some point (and big fingers crossed here) some of that wishful thinking is going to come to fruition.
At some point, something good’s going to come for me in the heart department.
(People who hope as much as I do just know these things.)
Something good.
Someone good.
And you know what, I bet he’s bringing waffles.
I bet he’s bringing love.
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